It wasn’t always grapes. Sometimes he’d been growing strawberries,
and he knew you liked jam so he’d make his own. You never told him,
but once or twice you crept round there, watched him standing at the stove
through the fog of your breath on the glass.
all your summertimes reprised in G major, everybody dying backwards in Technicolor just for you. aren’t you just so lucky? how the flowers never remember what did or didn’t happen above the staircase that day. though in the language of flowers, the only word that rhymes with sister is slaughter: their pollen flushed faces turning toward sunnier and sunnier slaughterhouses.
The cricket bat he scored 300 runs with,
his bronze-medal rose from a local fair,
his favorite cap—all given
the barcodes of oblivion.
on Fridays I don’t know if I’m more jealous of Loba’s curves
or the Gatsbyesque gluttony of Rampart’s silk skins that trigger memories
of every sari I abandoned to flee home with two suitcases Rampart
is everyone I’m scared you imagine after I leave
fairytale posing as apocalypse
what would a queer story be
without fungus-wearing flesh eaters,
bashing in the heads of civilians
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
